Downstairs? Remus thought. What could they want with us there? He stole a glance at Burrett out of the corner of his eye as their Death Eater contact turned away, half expecting her to question this unfamiliar procedure. But the senior werewolf neither spoke nor hesitated; perhaps she'd received orders like this before. Well, he could hardly refuse now. With a rising sense of apprehension, he followed their guide.
As they descended the staircase into the lower recesses of the house, the feeling began to rise in his chest, subtly but inexorably: a dawning fear, a slow dread of what lay before him. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck was beginning to rise; his skin pebbled in goosebumps and his breathing quickened. For a few seconds he could not pinpoint the source of this mounting dread, could not understand what his sharpened senses were trying to tell him. Then he heard the soft, deliberate intake of breath from Burrett just ahead of him, and all at once the source became obvious, unmissable: the smell of blood, wafting in faint currents in the air. Iron, rich, freshly-spilled and cloying in his nostrils and the back of his throat. And... something else, something familiar, like sweat and living, vital heat...
His heart froze like a stunned creature within the vault of his ribcage. He nearly stumbled; grabbed at the stone wall beside him for balance. Sirius?
For a taught, sparking livewire moment, he could not move, could not breathe. Then his heart exploded into frantic action. A wave of heat cascaded through his limbs as the blood rushed from his head and torso and into his extremities, his nervous system falling back on its ancient autonomic response to fear: fight, or flee. His ears were filled with a hollow rushing noise, his vision swam dizzily, making the flagstone floor below him rush upward; the small muscles in his fingers spasmed tight as he clutched at the wall, fingernails making a faint rasping noise against the rough granite while he fought to keep from falling to the ground.
They were headed down to a dungeon, and Sirius was inside of it.
Eyes stinging, he raised his head and looked up, into the barrel of the dim hallway still before him. In the foreground of his view was the shadowed back of Burrett's cloak, receding ahead of him: his whole violent reaction, from the first whiff of familiar blood, had only taken enough time for her to walk a few steps ahead of him. If he gave her another second, she'd look back and notice him holding onto the wall like he'd just been kicked in the chest by a horse.
No, no. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't allow her to doubt him now. He took a deliberate breath, freeing up his frozen lungs; pushed himself off the wall and stood up straight. Schooled his face, willed his racing heart to slow. Then he began walking again.
In the same fraction of a second, Burrett glanced behind her and gave a small scowl. "Hurry up," she mouthed.
By the time they finally reached the end of the hallway and approached the last door on the left, Remus's face was a smooth, neutral blank again. His shoulders were relaxed, his arms loose by his sides. When the Death Eater turned to address them, he would see only the faces of his two enforcers, indifferent to their environment but willing to do as they were ordered.
Persuade, he said. Remus allowed his mind to reach into the deep well of his assumed identity, the affect and attitude of one of Fenrir Greyback's pack members. He raised a sardonic eyebrow.
"Why call on us for that?" he asked. "Keeping people alive is your specialty, not ours."
Unconsciously, he braced for a reprimanding look from Burrett. But she seemed in no mood to disagree with him: she was examining her nails with the haughty air of one who does not plan to buckle down and get to work without a good reason.
"Unless you want him to answer your questions solely in a series of barks, yips, and growls," she said, "we're the wrong tools for the job."
Within the shadowed eyeholes of the mask, Remus could just see the Death Eater's eyes narrow. Although no mouth was visible, he was certain the Death Eater was smirking.
"Not you," he said, one gloved hand making a dismissive gesture toward Burrett. He turned his head instead toward Remus and pointed. "You, alone. We believe the prisoner knows you well."
Despite the sweat sticking his clothing to his skin, Remus could feel a wave of cold washing from his head to the tips of his fingers and toes. They know. They know who we are to each other, and they know he has the secret.
He stepped into the cell behind the Death Eater. In here, the smell of blood was a thousand times stronger, not an occasional whiff of iron on the air but a solid, three-dimensional map of scent, swimming and swarming in the close atmosphere. There was a splatter of it near the right wall, dry and stale; a fresher fine spray across the center of the room; a thick, dense puddle of it in the corner. And there, against the back wall, was the source of the smell, strongest of all, mixed with the less all-encompassing scents of sweat and bile and filth and hair and vital living flesh: Sirius.
For all that he was easy to identify by smell, by sight he was no more than a lump of deeper darkness in the dark room - but it was clear that he was connected to the wall by chains, and that most of his body was curled up, crumpled on the floor. Remus blinked hard and swallowed with difficulty as his stomach turned, threatening to be sick.
He moved slowly forward, approaching that crumpled shape behind the Death Eater. As he did, he could see the shape stir, unfold, and then sit up. He could hear the clink of chains, the drag of exhausted limbs. As Sirius lifted his head and the narrow beam of light from the outside hall illuminated his features, Remus could see him clearly: gaunt, raw-boned, fish belly pale with bruised eye sockets and sunken cheeks. His hair fell in matted, felted hanks that stuck to the sides of his face; every crease, scar and faint wrinkle of skin was outlined in dark residue, the remains of dried blood. Here and there, the skin was split open in wounds like rifts and fissures, unclean and patchy with scab tissue. Almost unrecognizable -
Except the eyes. The eyes were still Sirius's, alert and lucid, fever-bright and glinting with stubborn defiance. Not far below them, the thin, parched and bleeding lips parted to reveal teeth like a set of bloodstained blades and files. When he spoke, it was in a voice that was gravelly and exhausted, but familiar enough to shatter Remus's heart.
"Yes, he knows me," Remus said quietly, in a voice that did not shake. And it was true, Sirius would know who he was now, even though the light from the hallway was at his back and his features were obscured in shadow. His voice hadn't changed, even if his tone had. He stepped to the side, out of the light entirely, moving in an oblique half-circle around the side of the room so that he could face Sirius directly without the Death Eater between them.
"You lot have done a poor job with him, haven't you?" he continued. "Did it never occur to you that beating him just strengthens his resolve? No wonder they called me in."
"Do not -" the Death Eater began, but Remus turned his head abruptly towards him and pointed back toward the door, his expression arrogant and disdainful.
"Out," he commanded. "Leave him to me. I know how to break him."
no subject
As they descended the staircase into the lower recesses of the house, the feeling began to rise in his chest, subtly but inexorably: a dawning fear, a slow dread of what lay before him. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck was beginning to rise; his skin pebbled in goosebumps and his breathing quickened. For a few seconds he could not pinpoint the source of this mounting dread, could not understand what his sharpened senses were trying to tell him. Then he heard the soft, deliberate intake of breath from Burrett just ahead of him, and all at once the source became obvious, unmissable: the smell of blood, wafting in faint currents in the air. Iron, rich, freshly-spilled and cloying in his nostrils and the back of his throat. And... something else, something familiar, like sweat and living, vital heat...
His heart froze like a stunned creature within the vault of his ribcage. He nearly stumbled; grabbed at the stone wall beside him for balance. Sirius?
For a taught, sparking livewire moment, he could not move, could not breathe. Then his heart exploded into frantic action. A wave of heat cascaded through his limbs as the blood rushed from his head and torso and into his extremities, his nervous system falling back on its ancient autonomic response to fear: fight, or flee. His ears were filled with a hollow rushing noise, his vision swam dizzily, making the flagstone floor below him rush upward; the small muscles in his fingers spasmed tight as he clutched at the wall, fingernails making a faint rasping noise against the rough granite while he fought to keep from falling to the ground.
They were headed down to a dungeon, and Sirius was inside of it.
Eyes stinging, he raised his head and looked up, into the barrel of the dim hallway still before him. In the foreground of his view was the shadowed back of Burrett's cloak, receding ahead of him: his whole violent reaction, from the first whiff of familiar blood, had only taken enough time for her to walk a few steps ahead of him. If he gave her another second, she'd look back and notice him holding onto the wall like he'd just been kicked in the chest by a horse.
No, no. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't allow her to doubt him now. He took a deliberate breath, freeing up his frozen lungs; pushed himself off the wall and stood up straight. Schooled his face, willed his racing heart to slow. Then he began walking again.
In the same fraction of a second, Burrett glanced behind her and gave a small scowl. "Hurry up," she mouthed.
By the time they finally reached the end of the hallway and approached the last door on the left, Remus's face was a smooth, neutral blank again. His shoulders were relaxed, his arms loose by his sides. When the Death Eater turned to address them, he would see only the faces of his two enforcers, indifferent to their environment but willing to do as they were ordered.
Persuade, he said. Remus allowed his mind to reach into the deep well of his assumed identity, the affect and attitude of one of Fenrir Greyback's pack members. He raised a sardonic eyebrow.
"Why call on us for that?" he asked. "Keeping people alive is your specialty, not ours."
Unconsciously, he braced for a reprimanding look from Burrett. But she seemed in no mood to disagree with him: she was examining her nails with the haughty air of one who does not plan to buckle down and get to work without a good reason.
"Unless you want him to answer your questions solely in a series of barks, yips, and growls," she said, "we're the wrong tools for the job."
Within the shadowed eyeholes of the mask, Remus could just see the Death Eater's eyes narrow. Although no mouth was visible, he was certain the Death Eater was smirking.
"Not you," he said, one gloved hand making a dismissive gesture toward Burrett. He turned his head instead toward Remus and pointed. "You, alone. We believe the prisoner knows you well."
Despite the sweat sticking his clothing to his skin, Remus could feel a wave of cold washing from his head to the tips of his fingers and toes. They know. They know who we are to each other, and they know he has the secret.
He stepped into the cell behind the Death Eater. In here, the smell of blood was a thousand times stronger, not an occasional whiff of iron on the air but a solid, three-dimensional map of scent, swimming and swarming in the close atmosphere. There was a splatter of it near the right wall, dry and stale; a fresher fine spray across the center of the room; a thick, dense puddle of it in the corner. And there, against the back wall, was the source of the smell, strongest of all, mixed with the less all-encompassing scents of sweat and bile and filth and hair and vital living flesh: Sirius.
For all that he was easy to identify by smell, by sight he was no more than a lump of deeper darkness in the dark room - but it was clear that he was connected to the wall by chains, and that most of his body was curled up, crumpled on the floor. Remus blinked hard and swallowed with difficulty as his stomach turned, threatening to be sick.
He moved slowly forward, approaching that crumpled shape behind the Death Eater. As he did, he could see the shape stir, unfold, and then sit up. He could hear the clink of chains, the drag of exhausted limbs. As Sirius lifted his head and the narrow beam of light from the outside hall illuminated his features, Remus could see him clearly: gaunt, raw-boned, fish belly pale with bruised eye sockets and sunken cheeks. His hair fell in matted, felted hanks that stuck to the sides of his face; every crease, scar and faint wrinkle of skin was outlined in dark residue, the remains of dried blood. Here and there, the skin was split open in wounds like rifts and fissures, unclean and patchy with scab tissue. Almost unrecognizable -
Except the eyes. The eyes were still Sirius's, alert and lucid, fever-bright and glinting with stubborn defiance. Not far below them, the thin, parched and bleeding lips parted to reveal teeth like a set of bloodstained blades and files. When he spoke, it was in a voice that was gravelly and exhausted, but familiar enough to shatter Remus's heart.
"Yes, he knows me," Remus said quietly, in a voice that did not shake. And it was true, Sirius would know who he was now, even though the light from the hallway was at his back and his features were obscured in shadow. His voice hadn't changed, even if his tone had. He stepped to the side, out of the light entirely, moving in an oblique half-circle around the side of the room so that he could face Sirius directly without the Death Eater between them.
"You lot have done a poor job with him, haven't you?" he continued. "Did it never occur to you that beating him just strengthens his resolve? No wonder they called me in."
"Do not -" the Death Eater began, but Remus turned his head abruptly towards him and pointed back toward the door, his expression arrogant and disdainful.
"Out," he commanded. "Leave him to me. I know how to break him."